


Broken Promises

by Anonymous



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fëanor Lives, Gay Sex, Half-Sibling Incest, M/M, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:28:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24948448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The Battle of the Sudden Flame has left great losses to the Noldor and Golfin, Lord of Hithlum, launches into an impossible undertaking.When Fëanor, High King of the Noldor, arrives at Hithlum he receives news that will make him face memories of the past, feelings that he believed he had buried deep in his heart to never see the light.
Relationships: Aredhel/Maglor | Makalaurë, Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Fëanor | Curufinwë/Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë
Comments: 25
Kudos: 50
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Prologue

**_455, First Age_ **

The sentry nodded off. With both hands, he held the halberd while using it as his own bra. The second nod made the hull collide with the bushing that connected the blade to the shaft and with a start, he straightened up, cursing under his breath.

Days. Days had passed since he was entrusted with the post and although he was proud to be entrusted with such an important position, fatigue was beginning to take its toll on his body.

Entire days without rest, with water and food scarce, looking endlessly at the thick smoke that covered the entire horizon, hoping to be able to spot the enemy as soon as it appears among the ashes and the fire ... even an elf born in the Blessed Kingdom would succumb to fatigue at some point. Fortunately, until then all that emerged from the smoke were scattered groups of displaced people - the few survivors of Dorthonion, Green and Gray Elves who wandered disoriented in the face of terrible devastation - but just as enemies no longer came, neither did reinforcements or news, and despair began to take its toll on the inhabitants of Hithlum as well as hunger.

The young elf stared, saddened, at the vast plain before his eyes. A year ago, green meadows and brightly colored flowers stretched as far as the eye could see; now there were only vapors and black rock: Ard-galen had perished, devoured by the fire of Morgoth Bauglir, forever grave of numerous elves and men.

“Boy, open the door.”

The soldier turned on the spot, bewildered, and almost fell to his knees. It was the first time that he had seen the Lord of Hithlum, High Prince of the Noldor, so closely, and for a moment, his breath caught in his throat.

The rider adjusted the shield on his left arm and checked that the sword left the scabbard with ease. Only then did he notice the guard again, who was still clinging to his weapon and watching him with puzzled eyes from under his helmet without a plume. _Sinda_.

"The door," Golfin repeated icily.

However, the boy remained motionless, tightening his grip on the weapon's horn. Finally, the huge white horse shook his head impatiently and almost snorted into the boy's face, who jumped up and ran to move the crank that activated the mechanism of the liftgate. Golfin waited until the iron-reinforced wooden plank had lowered enough and struck the steed in the flanks. Rochallor picked up momentum and jumped over the door before it finished descending. The guard let out an exclamation of surprise and climbed on top of the mechanism to watch the prince depart.

Golfin had moved a few meters away when he pulled on the reins and forced Rochallor to turn on the spot like an acrobat horse.

“Boy, tell my son that if he doesn't hear from me in two days, he must write to the King.”

"Yes, sire," the _sinda_ stammered; but at that moment, he had an idea. “Sire! You're going to find the King, right? He is coming.”

Golfin regarded the young elf for a moment. The guard was beginning to regret his audacity when he saw the High Prince's eyes flash blue with amusement beneath the tufted helmet.

"Yes, kid, I am riding to meet the King," and deftly he made his mount turn.

Rochallor stood on his hind legs before galloping off.


	2. The High King has come.

As soon as the sentries spotted the red flag with the fire flower embroidered in gold, the voice spread quickly. With the cavalcade in sight of the wall, the horns of the Royal House sounded, awakening fearsome echoes in the valley. Barad Eithel was filled with movement and the liftgate descended. Without stopping the steeds, the High King of the Noldor and his two eldest sons jumped over the gate before it touched down and burst into the courtyard of the fortress. Following the momentum of the race, the magnificent animals - descendants of the powerful steeds brought from Valinor - circled the courtyard before stopping. Still, the leading black horse trotted a bit, spinning in place before stopping, all without making its rider uneasy. Meanwhile, the other two horsemen had dismounted and awaited their retinue.

Half a dozen people rushed from inside the building - mixed elves and humans. Seeing that the princes had dismounted, one of the officials clapped twice to hasten the stable grooms who promptly came to take care of the animals.

"Take good care of Sador," suggested one of the princes to the human servant, letting his left hand run down the animal's neck. “He has run a lot these days.”

The young man murmured his assent while bowing deeply.

“Really, Maedhros?” Said the second prince, taking off his hoof after dismissing his mare with a pat on the hindquarters. “All of our horses have run too much.”

The Crown Prince untied the helm straps with his left hand and took it off, letting the red curls fall free to mid-back. He adjusted the helmet on his right arm and pouted slightly, realizing that the eyes of humans invariably went to his decorated metal hand.

"Welcome, my lords," spoke the one who seemed to be the highest ranked among the dignitaries of the fortress. “ _Aran Meletyalda_.” He continued, bowing until his torso was parallel to the ground.

"Barad Eithel did not fall," were the king's first words when he jumped off the horse.

Hands on hips, he spun around to study the settlement situation. He could see the patches of the repairs and a tower remained half-ruined; but the inhabitants had worked fast. Looking back at the main building, Fëanor found that the keep was being rebuilt from the ground up.

“What happened here?”

“Dragons, Your Majesty”, reported the same official. Fëanor tried to remember his name. “Little ones; but several. Half a dozen.”

"You managed to scare them away, I suppose," he smirked as he started toward the steps that led up to the entrance and revealed his head.

“Two were killed, my lord.”

“Did they destroy the west tower?”

“Half wing, sire. We use the rubble to repair the wall, but the reconstruction works are very advanced.”

The High King raised an eyebrow mockingly.

“As efficient as ever the Vanyarin nuisance”, he muttered under his breath and in a louder voice, added: “Tell me ... uh ...”

“Sídhon, Your Majesty.”

“That.” Fëanor smiled showing the teeth like a wolf. “Sídhon, where is the Lord of Hithlum?”

“The High Prince is resting, my lord.”

They had arrived in the main hall and Fëanor turned on his heel so suddenly that the poor elf almost collided with him.

“Resting?” He repeated incredulously. “Was my arrival not informed to him?”

Sídhon took a breath as if preparing for combat. He was a tall enough elf to be a courtier; but compared to the stature of Fëanor and his imposing presence, the _sinda_ was irreparably diminished. For a second, the gray elf's green eyes scanned the King of the Noldor's appearance, stopping at the gilded armor, the side of which was slightly dented. Perhaps telling him that the prince was resting had not been the most ... appropriate idea.

"We were waiting for you, Your Majesty," he reported with effort.

"However," said the King, "the _High Prince_ is resting.”

“It has been a busy day, my lord. Lady Lalwen made the High Prince drink a -an infusion to calm him. We couldn't wake him up even if we wanted to.”

Fëanor leaned back slightly and exchanged a glance with his two older sons, who had approached the table to serve two glasses of wine. Maglor filled a third cup for his father and addressed him.

“Tell me ... Sídhon”, said the King with interest as he took the cup that his second son gave him, “what upset my brother so much that he needs Írime's concoctions?”

A heavy silence descended on those present. Maedhros, half sitting on the edge of the table, slowly straightened as he caught the tense glances that Golfin's servers exchanged. Maglor frowned frowning, suddenly remembering that his cousin Fingon was already called "Valiant" in Valinor; remembering the death of Arakáno when the town of Golfin hardly arrived at the Average Earth.

"Your Majesty," the Sindarin elf began slowly, " **High Prince Fingon** is resting."

Silence.

Fëasure removed the cup from his lips, without touching it. His eyes - surprisingly dark when a moment before they were like silver mirrors - locked on the elf, who held his gaze, not knowing what to expect. Fëanor's hand shot out like an attacking cobra and circled the gray elf's throat, who made a muffled noise of terror. There was a movement among the other attendees, but no one dared to go against the King.

“What did you say?” Fëanor demanded through clenched teeth. “What name did you say attached to that title?”

“Fi ... Fingon, Your Majesty.” Sídhon gasped. “Fingon is now High Prince.”

“Lie!” the High King roared, throwing him against the rest of the dignitaries as if it were a bundle. “Where is he? Where is that fucking moron of Nolofinwë?”

Sídhon massaged his neck, scared, while being held by two of his companions.

"He is not, sir ... Your Majesty," reported one of the humans. “Prince Golfin is gone.”

"It's a lie," Fëanor hissed, and now his eyes were like embers piercing souls. “Lie. Where is Nolofinwë?” He repeated, always using the Quenya version of his half-brother's name. “Why isn't he here to receive me? He’s playing ‘good lord’, right? Visiting the victims and offering comfort. Making one of his political plays.” A fierce smile opened his sensual mouth. “Where is he?” He demanded. “I'll go find him myself.”

“Nolvo is dead, Curufinwë”, reported a female voice, firmly.

The courtiers banded open to make way for the she-elf. Dressed in the dark and with her brown hair covered by a black veil, the lady advanced amid bowed heads.

"Auntie," Maglor greeted, with a bow that she barely returned.

"I want to see Fingon," Maedhros demanded without preamble, approaching her with long strides.

"Of course," she agreed, smiling so slightly that it didn't reach her eyes. “It will do him good to see you when he wakes up. He's been ... beside himself for the past few days. Galdor, show the Crown Prince the way, please.”

The human who spoke earlier - considerably taller than his race average - bowed deeply and marched in front of Maedhros.

“What joke is this, Írien?” Fëanor demanded through clenched teeth, regaining her half-sister’s attention.

Lalwen was not as tall as her brothers, but even so, she was an imposing female. Her heron eyes - her only Vanyarin trait - unperturbed ran over the twitching features of her half-brother and sovereign.

"I wish it was a joke, Curufinwë," she said flatly. “Findekáno has been sick since that guard informed us of Nolofinwë's departure. We had to put up with him so he wouldn't hit the poor boy, whose only crime was obeying his lord. Then -then it took several men to stop him from searching for his father.”

Lalwen turned her face to hide the tears that trembled on her lashes.

“It was ... horrible to see ... to hear. His screams ... it was as if ... as if he had lost his mind ... We had to take his child because he wanted -Fingon wanted to send him to Falas, with Círdan. Not even asleep, totally drugged, he wanted to drop the sword. It was the only thing the eagle brought, you know?” A smile curved her pale lips as she looked back at Fëanor. “Nolvo's sword. Ringil.”

"Eagle," repeated Fëanor, in an alienated tone. “What ... eagle?”

"Thorondor," she replied calmly. “He rescued his body when Morgoth was going to throw it to the wolves.”

“Morgoth -He ... he was taken?”

Lalwen looked at him and made a gesture of understanding.

“Of course. You've been moving: the stories haven't reached you yet.” A bitter chuckle lifted her chest. “Our brother challenged Morgoth to a duel, Curufinwë. He rode to the gates of Angband and challenged him. The eagle -Thorondor told us that he managed to injure him seven times before -Even when he was on the ground, Nolvo -Nolvo cut off the bastard's foot ...”

"I want to see him," Fëanor declared suddenly.

“Who?” she frowned.

“Nolofinwë.”

“You're not listening to me?” Lalwen hissed with clenched lips. “He’s dead.”

“His body. You said the eagle ... that rescued him -where is he? Where did you put him? You haven't buried him, right? Could -he could be just ... resting like ...”

“Fëanáro!” She cried desperately. “Thorondor took his corpse to Turgon’s city. His corpse, Fëanáro! Nolvo's corpse. Our brother's corpse.”

For a moment, Fëanor stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. Slowly, he began to shake his head from side to side, more and more vigorously until a scream erupted from his lips.

“He is not dead! He can't be, Írien! He wouldn't do that to me! Nolofinwë would not abandon me like this!”

“How dare you?” She roared. “How dare you say something like that? You -You abandoned him! You betrayed him! Nolvo is dead because of you!”

“No!” Anger erased all control of the King, who leapt towards his sister like a wounded beast. “Never say that. I would never ... never harm Nolofinwë ... He is ... everything.”

"Don't you dare pretend that you loved him more than I did, Curufinwë," Lalwen warned him angrily.

“Yes!” He replied, meeting her gaze. “Yes, Írien”, he insisted in a low voice; “I love him more than you can ever love him.”

And with a groan, he walked away from her, leaving her stunned.

Maglor had taken a few steps forward to stop his father if he ever attacked Lalwen, and now the bard was staring at the members of his uncle's court ... his cousin ... wondering how much they would have guessed from the King's words.

"Out," came Fëanor's hoarse voice, stopping next to the middle throne that his brother would normally occupy when the High King was not visiting his home.

“Father?” Maglor ventured, intending to go to his side.

“Out!” She ordered louder. “Get out everyone. Leave me alone.”

The courtiers rushed to leave the room in silence. Lalwen was undecided for a moment, but Maglor's assent convinced her to withdraw.

Only then did the musician go to where his father was and put a hand on his shoulder. Fëanor did not react, clinging to the back of the chair so tightly that his knuckles whitened.

"Atto," Maglor began in Quenya, softly.

"It's a lie," Fëanor mused, concentrating and turning to face his son, he had to make an effort not to let the horror show: his father's eyes were glowing madly. “Nolvo is not dead, Cáno.”

“Father, please, it's -it's hard to believe; but ... we must accept it”, spoke the youngest, patient. “We must accept that Nolofinwë is no longer with us ...”

“No!” the King was horrified. “I cannot accept such nonsense.”

“Father, we have lost many in this battle. Angrod, Aegnor ... Ballineth ...” he added with effort, through the knot in his chest.

“ _Onya_ ”, Fëanor smiled, stroking his hair, “I share the pain of your loss and my heart cries with you, but Nolvo is not dead. He can't be.”

Maglor made an impatient gesture, considering calling Maedhros to make his father see reason.

“Father…”

“Don’t you understand?” The High King smiled more widely. “I would have felt it. I would have felt the exact moment when he left this life. Just as he felt my abandonment before sighting the fire. Just as he felt my pain when I was wounded by the Balrogs. Just as I felt every gust of freezing air in the Helcaraxë. Just as I felt his grief at Arakáno's death. In the same way, my son, I would have felt the death of Nolofinwë. Now, do you understand why he can't be dead? Because I would have known it before everyone else.”

Maglor bit the inside of his cheek to keep from replying. Fëamy's expression was one of utter happiness as he defended his argument and the bard recalled that his father did not know how to deal with the loss. Then, after a few days had passed, he would end up accepting it. Fëanor would end up accepting that it was too late to fix things with his half-brother.

"Of course, _atto,"_ he smiled, forcing himself to hold back his tears.


	3. High Prince

The silence of the dimly lit chamber was hardly disturbed by the quiet sobs. No voice rose from the two hugging figures on the bed.

With his back against the back of the wide bed, Maedhros held Fingon in his lap, like when he was a boy back in Valinor, before all the pain and darkness, before discord and betrayal. He put his right arm around his shoulders and ran his hand down the youngest's back. For a moment, Maedhros had had the selfish idea that this was balance. Four hundred years ago, it had been him who trembled and sobbed in his cousin's arms after Fingon rescued him from Thangorodrim. So both of them had been so thin that they could feel each other's bones when they were squeezed tight, clinging to each other as if someone were to pull them apart again. Even Fëanor did not dare to comment against the restoration of their closeness; a proximity that four centuries did not cool, did not interrupt, did not twist.

“He didn't tell me.”

The words came out of Fingon's lips hoarsely, like an animal growl, almost muffled as Golfin's son pressed his mouth against the clothes of his older cousin.

Maedhros said nothing. There wasn't much to say, actually. His fingers continued to circle between Fingon's shoulder blades, descending slightly down the line of his spine.

"Maybe he thought I wouldn't follow him," Fingon spoke again, more firmly. “Maybe he believed that I would try to stop him, that I wouldn't have the courage to ...”

"He would never think you were a coward, Finno," Maedhros interrupted him at last, lowering his head further to press a kiss to his cousin's crown.

“It's not about cowardice, Russo, but of fear -fear of losing him ... I was so afraid of losing him.”

The sobs shook his broad shoulders, forcing the older elf to tighten his embrace.

“I know, precious; I know. But it wasn't your fault.”

"He waited for me to fall asleep," Fingon continued crying, burying his face in Maedhros's dark shirt. “He waited for fatigue to overcome me, for me to fall asleep to abandon me ...”

"He didn't leave you, Finno," he stroked his hair and let his hand run down the back of his neck to the small of his back.

“Then why didn't he tell me to go with him? I would have accompanied him, Russandol. I would have fought alongside him as we did all these years. Just two days before, we had shot down one of those young snakes together: side by side, shoulder to shoulder ... how we fought all these years.” He rose to his knees between Maedhros's legs, his blue eyes gleaming in the dark in Valinor's light. “I would have fought alongside him. Together we would have attacked Morgoth and he...”

"And you would be dead, Findekáno," replied Maedhros with violent emotion, grasping his face with both hands (his and the metallic one).

“Together we would have beaten him”, Fingon declared stubbornly.

“No! You know it wouldn't have been like that. Your father knew that and that's why he made sure you couldn't go with him, that you were safe. He did what he should: protect his son, and now it's your turn to do what you must: rule your people.”

"My father's people," he rectified bitterly.

“ **Your people** , High Prince Fingon.”

The phrase floated between them, tensing the air until it was almost impossible to breathe. Fingon disengaged himself from the arms of his best friend and jumped out of bed to pace from side to side like a caged beast.

"High Prince," he murmured on every walk. “High Prince. A High Prince who only has his father's sword to honor him”, he roared, turning in front of Maedhros. “That damn eagle took his body to Turukáno. To Turukáno, who was hidden in his damn city while our people died burned alive! While we opened the doors to welcome those who remained from the Houses of Aikanáro and Angaráto! While we spent weeks without sleep, watching those damn peaks! While we prayed for news from our relatives! And it was him that that damn bird gave the honor of honoring the death of my father!”

"I understand you," Maedhros agreed.

“No. You don't understand, Maitimo. You do not understand why your father is alive and you do not feel the urge to run to his room to confirm that he is sleeping, that this is nothing more than a nightmare, that you are still on time...”

His voice died in a sob and he doubled over, hugging himself as if the pain were physical. As if waiting for this signal, Maedhros jumped out of bed and grabbed him by the right shoulder to pull him back onto the bed. Fingon collapsed crying, writhing as if he were being tortured. Maedhros hugged him from behind, stroking his forehead and pushing his hair away to kiss his neck, his cheek, his ear ... while whispering consoling phrases in Quenya.

"I'm useless," Fingon sobbed suddenly, crying bathing his face. “I did not arrive in time to protect my brother ... and I was not there to take care of my father. I'm a failure. How can I be High Prince if I am not able to save a single elf?”

"You saved me," Maedhros reminded him with his lips pressed to his bare ear. “You went to Thangorodrim and rescued me from the very nose of our enemy. You did what no one else dared. You brought me back with my family, with my brothers, with my father -And not enough to have saved my body, you stayed by my side until you saved my soul. You are my savior, Findekáno. You're my hero.”

Fingon turned to lie on his back, still held by Maedhros's arm around his waist, and looked up at his cousin's face. Once, the firstborn of Fëanáro had been the most perfect creature in Arda; now, one scar crossed his face from the left eyebrow to the opposite earlobe, another slightly twisted the corner of his mouth downwards and burn marks covered the nape, extending to the front of the throat - as if a huge claw had leaning there to keep him down while ...

Fingon banished the thought. He knew only too well what Maedhros suffered in captivity: only he had stayed by his side as nightmares and memories threatened to take Maedhros away despite the ransom. Instinctively, Fingon raised a hand and traced the scar across his nose with his fingertip.

Maedhros suppressed the start that drove him away. It was Fingon. It was his savior who touched him. His hero. _His love_.

Fingon's finger was light on the marked skin, then sliding to draw the wound next to the mouth and the mouth itself. It had been so long since someone had touched him intimately, and no one had been loved as surely as the elf in his arms. His eyelids fell and through the lashes, he followed the movement with which Fingon straightened up to touch his lips with his.

First, it was a delicate pressure - lips against lips without anything else -, but then Fingon opened his mouth and slid his tongue over his cousin's lower lip, before taking it gently with his teeth and pulling, and sucking. Maedhros parted his lips and immediately Fingon's tongue was inside him, searching, exploring.

For a few eternal minutes, it was Fingon who kissed his cousin, patiently devoting himself to eliciting a reaction from the other. As Maedhros did not move, the youngest began to back away, leaving his mouth ajar. Then, Maedhros's hand tangled in his unkempt hair and now it was he who assaulted Fingon's mouth, devouring, biting, licking, gasping in response.

Fingon arched, offering his throat to the mouth that ran and nibbled. His body tensed with anticipation, aware that he was finally at the gates of what he wanted all his life. Suddenly, the air froze on his skin and when he sat up on his elbows, he saw Maedhros sitting on the edge of the bed, burying his head in his arms.

"I can't," the Crown Prince murmured, his voice strangled.

Fingon felt all the heat leave him and suddenly, the wet marks of crying felt exaggeratedly cold on his cheeks.

"Sorry," he said slowly, "I shouldn't have -I misinterpreted your attitude. I thought you wanted ...”

Maedhros straightened up and turned in front of him, his eyes sparkling with emotion.

"Yes, I want to, Findekáno," he declared passionately. “I've wanted even before it was ethical to want you. I've wanted to hold you in my arms and kiss you and touch you like you touch a lover since you stopped being a child. But I cannot allow my desire to blind me to the truth. And the truth is, you're ... hurt, vulnerable ... and confused.”

“Confused, Maitimo?” He frowned. “Yes, I am hurt: hurt because my father abandoned me. And furious because that fucking eagle took his body to Turukáno's asshole. But I am not confused. I have never been confused about you and how I feel about you. And if I never let you know before it was because -well, you were a seducer in Tirion, you know? I didn't think I... attracted you like this.”

Maedhros's lean cheeks darkened as his cousin brought up his past promiscuity in Valinor. Being the grandson of the Noldóran and the eldest son of Fëanáro Þerindion was not the best way to go unnoticed in Tirion. If you added to the fact that at that time he was honoring his maternal name, Maedhros had had at his feet all the beauties he desired in his previous life. Without his heart bending over any, he had gone from romance to romance like a hummingbird from flower to flower ... until Fingon aroused his attention.

The memories of Fingon in Valinor were the only ones that never faded into his mind in thirty years of the Sun of captivity. Neither time nor torture blurred the image of the child he tutored in his early studies, whom he taught to ride, to shoot with a bow, to fight with a sword and dagger; the one who he taught to dance and the tricks of court protocol ...The boy with wide blue eyes and rebellious hair grew up to be a teenager with clumsy limbs and too brown skin, and even then Maedhros felt his stomach twist at the sight of his cousin asleep - loops strewn over the pillows, rosy cheeks, parted lips, clenched fists - an exquisite vision that would ruin his hours of rest and return to him with each kiss, with each caress, with each orgasm. The years passed and Fingon matured, and Maedhros's desire grew. During the banishment, Maedhros had made the decision to confess his feelings to his cousin; but then came darkness, death, the oath, the curse, the betrayal. By the time Fingon arrived at Ennor, having endured the cruelty of the Helcaraxë, Maedhros was in the clutches of Morgoth, lost to his own father and brothers. But not for Fingon the Brave; never for him.

"You don't give yourself the value you deserve," Maedhros finally murmured, his silver eyes avidly scanning the other's pale features. “You have been my biggest dream for many years.”

“You never said it.” The younger insisted, biting his lower lip, for the first time distracted from the pain of the past few days.

“You ... when I was me again, you -you were married. I thought -I thought you ...”

"I loved Nínimel," Fingon admitted, frowning at the memory of his Sindarin wife, who perished during a patrol ten years ago. “But everyone knows that ours was a political marriage. My father ...” The voice drowned in his throat and again, his face drained of emotion, returning to reality. "Ereinion," he muttered suddenly, awkwardly moving to leave the bed and head for the door.

“What about him?” Maedhros was puzzled.

“I must get him safe. Send it to the Falas. When Morgoth attacks again, he cannot be here, on the front line.”

“Fingon ...”

“I have to hurry. At any moment he could start again and he has to be away for that ...”

“Findekáno, stop it!” ordered the Fëanorion, sitting up and going to his side.

Fingon turned in front of him, his expression lost.

"There is no time to lose," he insisted. “The wounds my father inflicted on him will soon heal, and Morgoth will again focus on destroying us. He has dragons -Many dragons, Maedhros; more than we imagined. We must safeguard children and women.” He looked away to immediately turn to his cousin and suggest, with some enthusiasm: “Ballineth can go with Ereinion to Círdan. They will be safe there. Maglor will agree ...”

"Ballineth is gone, Fingon," he interrupted, weary.

Fingon froze, the words drawn on his half-open mouth. Suddenly, he became aware of the fatigue on his cousin's scarred face and realized that as he closed in on his pain, others suffered losses as well.

Ballineth was dead. Maglor's marriage had also been a political alliance, but Fingon knew that affection had blossomed in the couple. And he knew that Maedhros had seen in that union a hope for them, for their family, for their kin.

Slowly, Fingon took a few steps toward Maedhros and reached up to stroke his chin. When the Crown Prince looked down, the lord of Hithlum straightened up to press his lips gently to Maedhros's.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Laughter tinkled along the corridor, forcing the King to raise his head. It was the first time since his arrival that he had heard laughter. No one dared to disturb High Prince Fingon's pain ... or the shadow that fell on the King's face.

Fëanor would not have wanted to admit it, but as the days passed, the certainty vanished in his heart. Golfin was not going back. His brother had abandoned him.

Laughter echoed again, and Fëanor rose to surround the desk and head for the office door. At the end of the corridor that passed his study was a boy on his knees, playing with a cat.

The cat was lying on its back and trying to catch the blue silk ribbon that the boy moved in front of him.

Fëanor looked at the little boy's blue and silver clothes, as well as the black braided hair, and knew who it was: Ereinion, Fingon's son. Without looking away, the Elven King evoked another child, many years ago.


	4. Of unnamed things and vermins

**_Tirion, Years of the Trees_ **

Fëanor made his way down the hall without making the slightest effort to carry his annoying load. From his hand, the kid hung meekly, tired of kicking and screaming. Straight hair fell to almost touch the ground as the prince carried him by the belt.

Finally, they reached the rooms, and Fëanor dropped the boy on the soft mattress, then headed for the door. As no noise of protest came to him, he paused for a moment, fearing he had been too rude to the bastard. He turned to study him and discovered the boy sitting on the bed, watching him with a crooked mouth.

“What?” He demanded, irritated.

"You are an idiot," replied the boy naturally.

“Whatever. You are an annoying thing.”

"I'm not a _thing_ ," he replied crossing his arms defiantly.

“You are not?”

“Yesterday you said it was a _vermin_. I cannot be a _thing_ and a _vermin_ at the same time.”

Fëanor had to hold back the laughter that rose from his chest.

“Would you rather be a vermin?” He found himself asking as he approached him.

"I want to be your apprentice," his half-brother stated firmly, lifting those precious blue eyes to face him.

Fëanor was surprised at how beautiful a child could be. Without realizing it, he was sitting next to him and extending a hand, he brushed the hair from the heart-shaped face, arranging it behind his pointed ear.

“You are too small to be an apprentice, little thing.”

“Vermin,” he corrected him. “Loremmírë is your apprentice and is only three years older than me.”

“Today I want you to be a "little annoying thing". Loremmírë is a teenager: he has grown quite fast and you barely manage to lift a fourth from the floor.”

“I'm going to grow!” the boy exclaimed, jumping up to be taller than his half-brother. “I will be tall and strong -taller than you. And then you won't tell me that I can't be your apprentice.”

For a moment, Fëanor rejoiced in the blush that courage brought to the boy's cheeks. He enjoyed the kid's courage and anger, and even thought about provoking him a little more, but instead, he said seriously:

“Have you seen the tally that is in father's studio?”

Golfin frowned, remembering.

“The one with the _tengwar_ engraved on it?”

“That one. When you are able to do the same, without mistakes, I will accept you as an apprentice.”

The boy pursed his lips, aware that it was a trick by his half-brother to get rid of him; however, after a few seconds, he nodded vigorously.

"You have to promise," he said suddenly. “Promise me that when I do, you will teach me what I ask of you.”

“I put Manwë and Varda as witnesses that when you present me the tally with the _tengwar_ engraved, without error, I will teach you what you ask for.”

His words allayed the suspicion of the boy, who settled himself sitting cross-legged in front of him and stared at the adult again.

“Now what?” Fëanor raised an eyebrow.

“Tell me a story. Of Cuiviénen.”

“You should ask Rúmil to tell you those things: he was there.”

“You tell them better.”

“I have to go back to the forge.”

“I'll go after you if you don't tell me the story.”

“Are you blackmailing me, you vermin?” Fëanor frowned.

“I'm negotiating with you. If you tell me the story, I won't go to the forge for at least three days. If you don't tell me ...”

Fëanor almost laughed: yes, the nuisance was daring!

“Very well, vermin, take off your shoes and lie down so I can tell you that story at once.”

Golfin curled his mouth down, but his older brother noticed that he was doing it not to laugh. When he couldn't contain himself anymore, the boy pointed out:

“You called me _vermin_ , not _thing_.”

And he laughed happily as if he had won a game.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Fëanor took a deep breath, not taking his eyes off the playing child.

In a way, it was to be expected that this would happen - to meet Ereinion and suddenly have all those memories of the past, _of a better past_. From a past when his half-brother was alive and safe.

He almost groaned when he realized he had just admitted - mentally at least - that Golfin might be dead.

“No!”

He realized that he was speaking aloud when the boy stopped playing with the cat and turned his round little face, adorned by huge blue eyes, towards him.

Fëanor stared wide-eyed and bit the inside of his cheek, debating whether to turn or approach the kid. Before he could make a decision, a middle-aged human woman emerged from a room and hastily approached the little prince. The woman took the boy in her arms and turned to the king.

"My apologies, Your Majesty," she said in a slow voice. “The young lord is restless. Like all children. And no one has yet explained him why his grandfather does not return. So Prince Ereinion comes to wait for him at the door of his office.”

The king threw his head back as if he had been punched. His gaze returned to the boy, who was now watching him with his head resting on his nurse's chest.

"With your permission, I will take His Highness to rest now," the woman added, receiving no response.

Fëanor did not move. He stayed in the same position while the woman took the child away. The cat followed with a silent jump. As they drove away, Fingon's son settled down so he could continue to look over the woman's shoulder at the king.

Fëanor turned on his heel and returned to the interior of the office.

He closed the door and leaned against it, exhausted.

The studio was an exact copy of Golfin's office in Valinor. Everything there was… _him_. Like to look in his mind.

Fëanor went to the desk and dropped into the chair.

He had to admit it. Golfin was not going back. There was not going to be another chance to do things right, to tell him...

His knee hit the bottom of the desk and a piece of wood fell away.

"What the fuck, Nolofinwë?" He muttered angrily. “Couldn't you fix your damn desk?”

He bent down to check the damage and blinked several times to discover something sticking out of a hidden drawer under the table. He reached in and grabbed what appeared to be a notebook.

He stood up, bewildered, holding the book in his hands.

He recognized his half-brother's handwriting on the first page, and his strokes in the drawing of a fiery flower surrounded by stars like snowflakes. But, it was not the writing of the High Prince. Those traits were those of Nolofinwë, the teenage son of Finwë and Indis, prince of Tirion.

Slowly, he turned the pages and began to read...


	5. The Prince's Diary (1): Riding with the Queen.

**_Tirion, Years of the Trees_ **

_My father has not stopped talking about the beautiful couple that Eärwen and I make, both dressed in blue and silver jewelry. The Telerin Princess is beautiful, but right now she is too pale - which is interesting since Nelyo and I observed yesterday that her skin had a delicious golden hue - and whenever her father or mine suggests that we stay together, she shoots me terrified glances. Certainly, I’m more than one head taller; but at this point, I surpass ninety percent of the Noldorin Court, all the more reason for the delicate princess of the Foam Horsemen. When the Ciriáran proposes that we have a picnic tomorrow and she looks at me, I smile softly at her. Worse: her cheeks light up and the poor creature is about to swallow the gold fork._

_"I think it would be much better if Falmandil takes Macalaurë and me to sail, and Lalwen takes Princess Eärwen to see the craft market," I intervene in the plans of both kings._

_The two of them look at me with a frown and under the table, I kick my nephew, who winces and says, running over the words:_

_“Yes! I want to go sailing before returning to Formenos for the Festival. Also, the princess has not known the market yet.”_

_"She has to bring gifts for her friends," I point out with a smile and direct a glance at the trembling maiden, urging her to speak._

_"I –I want to bring gifts to everyone, father," she stammers._

_Luckily, my mother - my precious and beloved mother - intervenes in support of my proposal and both kings have no choice but to give in._

_:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::_

_"Father is crazy if he thinks I'm going to marry that little girl."_

_I growl the words as I lean on my horse neck. Tyelkaráto gallops across the meadow and the air rushes through my loose hair, free of the braids I combed it this morning._

_The clear laughter of my companion reveals that she heard my comment. I pull myself up to pull the reins lightly, and slowly Tyelkaráto slows to a stop near the seedlings that indicate the Vána grove. I make my horse turn in place and the dazzling isabella mare joins me a few seconds later._

_My mother smiles amused when she looks at me._

_Few in Tirion have seen the true face of the Queen Indis –few have actually seen her in leather pants, the slender waist cinched by the green velvet sleeveless vest, knee-length smooth boots, the long golden hair pulled back in a ponytail that brushes the rump of her mount, the blush staining her perfect face. Few know that she handles the bow with the skill of a teler, that her grace in walking does not come from long evenings dedicated to complicated Vanyarin dances but rather from hard training sessions, that she can knock a mature elf down with a punch. Few **know** my mother, Indis Vanima of the Vanyar._

_"The girl is pretty," she claims with a mocking sparkle in her blue eyes._

_“Certainly. She is the most beautiful creature I know “, I admit. “After you.”_

_I pout when she raises an eyebrow._

_"Flatterer," she reaches out to hit me on the shoulder._

_"And Maitimo," I add, with a shrug, and my mother bursts out laughing._

_"But you can't marry either of us."_

_"Not in Valinor at least," I point out._

_"You've been visiting Curufinwë’s library too often," she arches one eyebrow sarcastically._

_"Why do you blame him for every nonsense I say?"_

_“Because Rúmil is too ... **valadur** to promote them. And because you do spend a lot of time in his library”, she declares firmly. “So you don't want to marry Eärwen Olweniel.”_

_“She's afraid of me!” I exclaim, unable to believe my own words. “She trembles every time I speak to her and looks at me as if she expects me to eat her. Does she think I'm a valarauko?”_

_I notice how my mother contains the laughter until she erupts in Argentine laughter._

_"Mother, it's not funny," I reproach her. “No female has ever looked at me like that. How does father think I could marry a girl who’s afraid of me?”_

_"I doubt that Eärwen is afraid of you, Arakáno," she says after a few minutes and punches her mare in the flanks to get her going._

_I follow her mechanically._

_"Did you notice how she was looking at me?"_

_"I think her maid has given you information that the poor girl didn't need to have. At least not yet.”_

_“Not that…”_

_"Eärwen is afraid of being crushed," she laughs._

_I pulled Tyelkaráto's reins, baffled by her amusement with the subject. I feel the blush rise to my neck and my face._

_“Mother!”_

_“Sorry. The fault lies with her maiden. No one sent Olwë to find a Vanyarin governess for her only daughter.”_

_"You are Vanya."_

_“AND? I am not crazy enough to tell a girl that sex is painful and a ceremony that must be held with the sole purpose of procreation, that her husband will lie on her to take her with all his momentum ...”_

_"Enough," I contain her. “I don't want to hear anymore.”_

_“Sorry honey. I know –I hope that you are an attentive and sensitive lover, but Eärwen is barely an infant and she is scared with the possibility that all your ... "momentum" falls on her. She is not afraid of you, but of intimacy with you. Or with any male.”_

_"But I can't marry her if she thinks like that. Whatever I do will only scare her more.”_

_“Easy.” Suddenly she is serious and stops her mount to caress my cheek, tenderly. “I do not agree with that engagement. You must choose your wife –Finwë cannot do it for you. Also, that poor girl needs time to recover. I will suggest Olwë a new maiden. A noldorin one, preferably.”_

_“Thank you. In the name of both. Neither of us is ready for marriage.”_

_"You're not even of legal age," she rolls her eyes impatiently. “I don't know what Finwë was thinking. Does he think all elves are eager to tie themselves to one person before they have begun to live? That he and his son did it does not mean ...”_

_She stops, noticing that I am staring at her. The color leaves her cheeks and she turns to look in the direction of the city we have left behind. I know how much it hurts my mother to be reminded of my father's first marriage. According to the Valar, the Eldar love only once and generally choose our companions in early youth. That would mean that my father still loves Míriel ... even after her leaving him. However, Rúmil himself - who is so “valadur” - has mentioned that if my father had taken his time before rushing to join the first female that attracted him, I would probably be the Crown Prince. It is not something I would personally want - I cannot imagine a world without Fëanáro - but I would like my mother to be valued._

_"Let's go back," she proposes at last, unflappable. “We should bathe and prepare for dinner.”_

_"Please don't sit me next to Eärwen." I plead almost pitifully._

_My mother bursts out laughing._


	6. The Prince's Diary (1): Night Chats I

_Telperion is at its best when I finally manage to retire to my rooms. Although two seasons are still left for my coming-of-age ceremony, Father has decided for me to attend all events and festivities as an adult. He has even shortened my study hours for me to attend Council sessions._

_A week ago I had to stop learning with Master Samnotar and since two days ago I do not go to the training arena. I am tired and although I try not to show it, I know that at least Mother has noticed it. Also Lalwen, for a change. After Findis's marriage and with Ingoldo still a child, my sister has become attached to me again, which also makes me responsible for her in the little free time I have left._

_I haven't been to Formenos for more than a month, I calculate while I rip off the diamonds I have in my braids. I haven't seen my nephews in weeks! The last thing I knew - from Loremmirë's mouth - was that Carnistir is in love with the daughter of one of my brother’s apprentices and that when Macalaurë tried to compose a song for him, Carnistirthe broke the harp broke in his head. What I would have given to see Moryo breaking the harp on Cáno's head! Sweet Macalaurë can be infuriating at times. Too many times, actually._

_I stop in the middle of my bedroom, with my hair half unraveled and look at the silhouette lying on my bed. Rather, lying across my bed. The only thing my brother did before falling asleep was to take off his shoes and remove his vest. A smile pushes the corners of my mouth as I finish undressing cautiously so as not to disturb him. I hastily put on my nightgown and leggings before I slide into bed beside him._

_As soon as I settle on one side, facing him, Fëanáro's eyelids flutter and lift, languid. The brightness of his eyes is veiled by sleep, but immediately he smiles and moves to get closer to me. His heat rips through my thin clothes and sends a chill down my spine. My brother is so beautiful that every time I see him, something breaks inside me. His arm wraps around my waist and his forehead rests against mine as his legs tangle with mine._

_“Where were you?” he demands in a hoarse voice while pushing me from behind so that our torsos touch._

_For a second, I delight in the tingling on my skin - like every time he touches me - and I let my abdomen ripple with his, our muscles adjusting. As on every occasion for a few years, I sense the increasing hardness of his sex, pressing on my crotch. While I was still a teenager, Fëanáro took the trouble to hide it, but for a while here, he no longer wastes energy in reconciling the excitement that my contact causes him. I am not very helpful either, honestly: although at first I was frozen to feel the lump like rock touching my body, now - most of the time - I move against it, provoking him. Other times I just stay still and let him rub himself against me. On one occasion I even turned around and let him press against my butt. It was a tremendous experience: my brother's fingers digging into my hip as he rubbed his sex against my buttocks. Despite the clothes, I could feel his heat and the moisture that flowed from his cock. I got so excited that I had to squeeze my thighs so as not to grab my penis and jerk off in front of him. Vain effort: as soon as Fëanáro came, panting against my neck, I realized that my own semen was soaking my clothes too. It was after that that he stopped pretending. In public, we behave differently - totally correct and almost distant. Fëanáro pretends that he is patronizing and I pretend that I only give him the respect due to an older brother -an older brother not very close. We rarely speak in front of others. If it weren't for all my jewelry being his work, nobody would believe that my brother and I have any relationship._

_“Father invited the representatives of the Guilds to dinner,” I inform him quietly, modulating my voice so that it is not a whisper. I know that he loves when I do that and I have been learning with Lady Laurómawen to modulate my voice to cause different reactions in my interlocutors: it is one of my new subjects of study, the art of oratory._

_“What does it have to do with you?” Now his hands wrap around my butt, forcing me to lift one leg to wrap around his waist. Our sexes align and a rush of pleasure shakes me. “It is true that you have a seat on the Council then.”_

_I catch his piercing gaze and clench his jaw. No matter what is between us, my brother cannot help being terribly jealous of his rights as a firstborn._

_"Of course not," I raise an eyebrow nonchalantly and manage to free my leg from his grasp. The loss of his heat leaves me almost sore but I move away from him and he accommodated me hugging the pillow. “The Representatives would never admit a young Counselor without any demonstrated ability.”_

_Immediately he is on top of me, running through my neck with his half-open mouth, moving his hand under my shirt. I force myself to remain still._

_"Maybe you should invite them into your bedroom," he whispers in my ear, "and show them how skilled you are at driving me mad."_

_"If that is supposed to be fun," I coldly declare, "it is not, Curufinwë."_

  
  


_He stands up on one elbow to watch me, frowning._

_Sometimes it's just better when we don't talk. When I was a child it was much easier to accept all the opinions of my “wonderful older brother”, but now I know that Fëanáro is not perfect. He is far from being so. I want him. I love him so much that sometimes it hurts and the worst thing is that I know he doesn't love me the same. Fëanáro first loves father and his work, then the memory of his mother - the holy and beloved Míriel -, then his children would come and finally - deep down in his heart - I come, the brother whom he prefers to treat as any elf. I guess I should be grateful that he doesn't ignore me as he does with my siblings._

_“What's wrong?” He interrogates me, without stopping studying me. Any trace of drowsiness has left him, and while I can still feel his hard cock against my hip, I know that even that now has come to the fore._

_"I'm exhausted, Curufinwë," I sigh, closing my eyes. “I have to get up early for the Floral Games training and spent four hours listening to conversations that don't interest me and smiling like a marriageable maiden at her first dance. Have compassion to me,” I moan at the end, arching slightly to settle into the bed._

  
  


_For a moment I feel his gaze sweep over me. I can almost hear his thoughts. In fact, the force of his jealousy burns the edges of my mind, but now it is not jealous of his position as the prince, but of me. He is wondering if I have met someone who attracts me more than him, if I have let someone else have this intimacy with me ... I have to make an effort not to smile. I'm almost 50 years old, by Mandos! Of course, I have had intimacy with others - females and males. A part of me is wondering whether to confess that Nelyo kisses deliciously, in a sinuous and warm way that makes my skin flicker, although it doesn't turn me on like when he touches me. No, I better not share that knowledge with him. Probably he will not find funny at all that his eldest son …_

_I just realized that Fëanáro has never kissed me on the mouth. My stomach sinks with discovery. In front of father - and just to please him, naturally - Fëanáro has kissed me on the cheek - so slightly that I have hardly felt the touch of his lips. Just the two of us - in the secret of my room, in his library, in his workshop - I have felt his mouth on my neck, on my hands, on my forehead, on my ears ... but never in my mouth. Understanding hits me, scaring away even sleep and excitement. Instinctively - and as my mother has taught me - I erect diamond walls around my mind, as I relax my face to pretend to sleep._

_“Don’t do it.”_

_His voice is almost a rough roar above me. I pretend not to hear him. The pressure of his lips on my temple and the weight of his body on mine forces me to wake up._

_“What?” I complain. “I'm sleepy, Curufinwë.”_

_“Don’t close yourself to me,” he demands, in a tight voice and I open my eyes, perplexed. Did he know it? “Don't leave me out, Nolvo.”_

_“I'm not…”_

  
  


_I interrupt myself. I have done it dozens of times before, with almost everyone - including my mother. My brother looks at me with a somber expression, his eyes darkened by emotion and again the feeling is so strong in my chest that I hardly breathe. I turn my face away._

_“I dislike it when you are so possessive with your first child rights,” I confess, without emotion. “You make me feel like an intruder, a ... thief.” I confront him so that he can see my anger clearly. “I do not want your place, Curufinwë: neither in the Court ... nor in the heart of our father.”_

  
  


_For a second, he has the decency to look embarrassed. For one second. A smile lights up his perfect features and he kisses me on the forehead before jumping out of bed._

_“I brought you a gift!” he announces happily as if talking to the Nolofinwë of twenty years ago._

_“You did not have to bother …” I start to say while he looks in his travel bag._

_"It's never a bother," he purrs seductively when he returns to bed and hands me a wooden case._

_Despite my words, anticipation flutters behind my navel. I sit up and pick up the box. It weights. It must be jewelry. Fëanáro loves to give me jewelry. Since I was too young to use it. Father has always been happy that my brother gives me gifts - gifts that he himself creates - but my mother only looks sternly every time I receive a jewel. Findis and Lalwen are totally jealous that I own more jewelry than the two of them put together, and that they are all the work of the finest craftsman of the Noldor. The beauty of my brother's works could only be surpassed by Aulë himself, and I would not love a gift from the Vala the same._

_I open the box and discover an incredible clasp: made of silver and mother-of-pearl, it is a pair of open wings and an ebony pin - shaped like a Vanyarin spear - is underneath, resting on the blue velvet._

_"It is beautiful," I say, absorbed._

_“It is for your hair,” he explains and takes it in his hands. “Let me show you.”_

  
  


_I bow my head and let his fingers tuck my hair up, deftly. When he pulls away, I raise my hands to check that every last hair is caught in the clasp. Fëanáro jumps out of bed and looks for my hand mirror on the dresser. The mirror is one of the first works of Atarinkë, his youngest son. Atarinkë thinks I am too beautiful for a boy and generally gives me ‘girl gifts’. At first, it bothered me, but now it's just one more joke. Especially after he told my father that he was going to marry me when he was older. My brother found it very funny, actually._

  
  


_I look at my image in the mirror: all my hair - and we're talking about **a lot** of hair - is tied up in a ponytail at the top of my head. The wings rise to the sides, proudly lifting the bow, held in place by the miniature spear._

_“Impressive,” I admit, appreciating the imposing effect that the hairstyle gives me, which also slightly raises my eyebrows._

_"It's for you to use at the Games this year," he declares, fascinated by my reaction. I smile at him._

_“Thank you,” I whisper extending a hand to caress his cheekbone and slide the index finger along the curve of his jaw to the corner of his mouth._

_“I do not consider you a thief,” he says suddenly and I see the gesture with which he swallows as if it were difficult for him to open up. I don't remove my hand from his face. “Neither an intruder. Not you, Nolvo. Never you.”_

_“That’s good,” I nod, initiating a smile, “because I really don’t want your place, Curufinwë. I want to be by your side.”_


	7. The Prince's Diary (1): Night Chats II

_ I don't even know why I said it, why I let my feelings come out in such a way. I see the gleam in his obsidian eyes and how he leans slightly towards me. We are kneeling on my bed, face to face, and my eyes are up to his. I have really grown in these years, since my brother carried me on his lap to show me his projects. For some reason, I remember that time he invited me to live with him in Formenos, before the house was finished, when Nerdanel left for her father’s for the first time. For a few months I really believed Fëanáro’s words - that he would take me with him, that I would be enough to fill the void left by his partner. After that occasion, Nerdanel has come and gone between Formenos and Master Mahtan's house too many times to believe in a true separation. Also, I have learned that no matter how I feel about my brother, Nerdanel will always be his wife. Even if right now Fëanáro is looking at me like he wants … _

_ “Thanks again,” I say, avoiding his closeness to grab the box in which my gift came. _

_ I freeze, looking at the ring resting on the velvet. Of course he has given me rings before: I have about thirty designed exclusively for him by me, but  this is different. It takes me a moment to understand that they are  **two** rings, the blue stone - perfect, created by my brother since a star seems trapped inside - fitting into the red circle to unite the two gold bands. Separated, each would be a ring, but anyone who saw them together would know that they were designed to fit together. _

_ Inevitably, my fingers reach out to them, like I want to make sure they're real. Before I can touch them, Fëanáro's hand closes on mine. I look up at his face and again his emotions are there, in plain sight. _

  
  


_ "It is not a gift, Nolvo," he declares in a thick voice. _

_ "Sorry," I murmur uncomfortably. “I thought that…” _

_ "One is for you," he speaks again, firmly. “But it is not a gift. It is a promise, a ... claim.” _

_ I watch him, silent. The hand that covers mine now raises it to his lips and a chill runs through me as I experience the contact of his breath, his lips, his tongue on my knuckles. He turns my hand over and presses his mouth into my palm before moving to kiss the inside of my wrist. _

_ “In two seasons you will be of age, Nolofinwë,” he murmurs against my skin and I roll my eyes to resist the heat that runs through my veins. “If you really want to be by my side, if you feel like me ... accept my ring and come with me to Formenos. Forever.” _

  
  


_ I refuse to understand what his words mean, the leap in my stomach, the pressure on my temples. _

_ “You want…?” I swallow hard to find the words. “Do you want me to live with you in Formenos? What…? What does Nerdanel think?” _

_ "There is no Nerdanel in the life I'm offering you," he objects, straightening up to catch my face with his hands, moving closer to my body. “You and me, Nolvo. You and me for the rest of eternity, as one. Friends and lovers. Companions,” he finally declares almost on my lips. _

  
  


_ I know. I've always known that. Is it not weird? My mother says that the first word I said was  "melindo" and that I said it to Fëanáro one day when we were all in the garden together. They had been reading Elemmírë's ballads and everyone believed that I was just repeating the word I heard. It was the first time that my brother carried me: while still discussing the translation with my mother and Rúmil, Fëanáro lifted me off the ground and put me on his knees. My mother told me that I held on to one of his braids and stood very still, my head on his chest. Did I know then? Perhaps the Valar are right and the Eldar do choose our companions early in life. _

_ Maybe I have always known, since before I came into the world. Maybe it was written on my  fëa before I was born. Maybe I just came into this world to be with him. It really doesn't seem like a bad fate to me. _

_ “But what will father think?” I am able to say, weakly. “And mother. They ... What about your children?” _

_ “Do you care?” He demands still holding me so close that I feel his heartbeat against my chest. “Do you care more than how you feel about me?” _

_ I know that answer. _

_ “No. Nothing is more important than you than how I feel about you.” _

  
  


_ A sound akin to joyous laughter comes from his lips and he kisses me softly at the corner of his mouth as his hands descend without touching me. I feel that he is looking for my left hand and when I look down, I see him slide the ring with the red circle on my index finger: that way there will be no doubt who I belong to. He hands me the second ring and when I take his hand in mine, I feel the tremor that shakes him. _

_ “Curufinwë …” I whisper. _

_ “Ssshhh.” Put a finger on my lips. “Put the ring on me, my love. Let everyone know that my heart is yours.” _

  
  


_ I obey, holding my breath. I can hardly believe it when our hands clasp and I see the stones sparkle with equal intensity. I look up at his face and find his eyes shining fiercely, with a passion that has never been so openly exposed. I open my mouth to speak and then his mouth is on mine. _

_ Fëanáro is kissing me . The world does not exist outside the lips that mine claim. I have never been kissed in this way: his tongue dances in my mouth and my whole body vibrates with the sinuous movements with which he seduces me. I can barely breathe when he's a few millimeters apart. And he kisses me again, without releasing my hands. Centuries pass until my arms wrap around his neck and his hands run down my sides. _

_ “I love you,” he confesses hoarsely kissing up to under my ear, his hands looking under my shirt. “I've been dreaming about this for so long ... wishing I could really feel -you have no idea how difficult it has been to control me …” _

_ I have it. Only once - that time - have we allowed ourselves to reach the end and have never fully enjoyed our intimacy. I respond to his kisses with daring. He groans, approvingly and I pull back to cross my arms in front of my torso and pull the shirt over my head. His eyes are like wells of desire, spirals of light and shadow, running hungrily through me. I never imagined that anyone could look at me that way - as if he wanted to devour and treasure me at once. _

_ I reach out to open his shirt, touching the satin skin as I push the piece down his shoulders. With his mouth ajar, his eyelids half closed, my brother lets me do it. A slight growl emerges from his throat as he glides his fingertips across his bare chest, brushing against his dark nipples. I descend his hard abdomen, pressing on the stretch marks of the muscles and I touch the belt, hesitantly. I want to see him naked, in all his glory. I want to see the effect I have on him. _

_ Fëanáro sits up on his knees, inviting me. With trembling fingers, I let go of his belt and open his fly to push the pants down his hips. No underwear - why should I be surprised? His skin appears inch by inch, smooth and tan, smooth as silk and warm as Laurelin's light. I let my fingers run down his hips and thighs, ignoring the cock that stands before me, flailing every time my fingers trace his skin. Gently, holding my breath, I force my brother to lie down to finish undressing him. Climbing up his long legs, laying nervous kisses on his knees, his thighs, the line of his crotch…  _

_ I turned my head and pressed my lips to the base of his sex. An incredible sigh rises from Fëanáro and I kiss again at the same point, venturing my tongue to circle the base of the shaft and descend to the testicles. I have never done this to another male before: rather I have been the object of such attentions, but although I am nervous, an unusual security drives me to continue. I straighten up licking the entire hard length. There is a delicious weight on my stomach as I slowly suck on the tip, using my right hand to pull the cocoon of skin out and expose the crown. My whole body shudders when I take it in my mouth to suck and lick. The slightly salty, novel flavor spills onto my tongue and my cock beats anxiously. _

  
  


_ Fëanáro arches and tangles a hand in my hair, but he doesn't ram into my mouth. Rather, he pulls me away and pulls me to his height. His other hand pushes on my leggings and I awkwardly help him undress me. My penis straightens, brushing against his belly. _

_ My brother squeezes my butt, pushing me against his body and our cocks are trapped between us, one against the other, rubbing in the heat and pressure. _

_ I begin to move on top of him, slowly, rocking my hips as his hand massages my buttocks and opens them for his finger to caress my entrance. For a moment, I wonder if I will have the courage to go on, to get to where he wants to go. All elves know that to create a bond between couples we must complete the carnal act, but Fëanáro is already joined to Nerdanel although right now they are not … _

_ The swift movement with which we change position makes me cry out in surprise. My brother smiles against my neck, his teeth scraping my pulse. _

_ "Stop thinking," he orders and straightens up on one elbow to look at me with dilated pupils. _

_ Now it is he who beats the rhythm, ramming against my body. The pre-seminal liquid lubricates our cocks against each other and an uncontrollable fire ignites inside me, as if I wanted to devour my brother. _

_ "That's better," groans Fëanáro, feeling my emotions overflow. “Oh Nolvo, my precious boy, my love ... you have no idea what I am going to do to you ... what I will allow you to do to me …” _

_ Oh but I have it. From always, it has been  his image that populates my fantasies. It is  his hands that I dream of in me,  his mouth ... it is in  his body that I dream of freeing myself ... and I dream of him holding me under him, forcing me to open up and offer myself, to invade me with his body, filling me, satisfying a hungry I didn't know I could feel. _

  
  


_ Fëanáro groans hoarsely: I know he has seen my thoughts and now we both struggle to get more from each other.  _

_ The world fragments behind my eyes. My body arches, my head falls, and a moan of despair and relief runs through me. I feel the brutal force with which he clings to me, the burning humidity that adds to mine between our bodies. His cock pulses almost painfully as he continues to ejaculate and his hoarse, wild voice murmurs promises in my ears, my mouth, my throat. _

  
  
  


_ I lift my eyelids with effort. Fëanáro lies on his side with his eyes closed. His hand rests on my hip and when he perceives that I come back to me, he moves it to caress my belly, playing obscenely with the almost dry fluids on my skin. Without opening his eyes, he comes over and kisses me. _

_ "You didn't take me," I declare, unable to hide a certain disappointment, my voice thick with moans. _

_ “This is not the time or place,” he explains, still kissing me. “I wouldn't control myself if I'm inside of you. I would make you scream -I would scream so loud that the servants would come.” _

  
  


_ I feel the blush rise from my stomach, but I smile, delighted. My brother tugs on my hip to bring me closer to him. I go for his mouth shamelessly, biting his lower lip, sinking my tongue and looking for his. He gasps, excited. _

  
  


_ “When then?” I demand, sliding a hand to caress his ass. _

_ “When we are home. I'm going to kick everyone out,” he admits, stuttering and I feel how both of us are hard again. We move against each other. “I'm going to tie you to my bed and do everything I've dreamed of since I held you in my arms the first time.” _

_ "Pervert," I whisper, licking his mouth and chin. “I was a baby.” _

_ “I saw you.” A moan shakes his body while he pushes me by the rear to rub our erections. “Already then I saw the precious creature that you would be ... and you would belong to me. Nolvo, Nolvo”, he sings against my skin, between bites. “I hope that one day you can understand how I want you ... how I love you.” _

_ I cannot answer him. Pleasure throws me out of my body, floating in a sea of fire and passion. _

  
  
  


__

_ Our mixed sperm cover my skin. Hours have passed since I entered the bedroom and discovered my brother in my bed. I am lying on my stomach and my eyes can barely open. Fëanáro's fingers run down the line of my spine, from my nape to the junction of my buttocks. His mouth plays on my shoulder. Right now, his sex rests softly between his thighs, lightly pressed to my hip: I think we have reached orgasm about five times, but he doesn't seem sleepy. His semen also moistens my back and I have his taste in my mouth even though he made me drink two glasses of water to relieve my throat from his rough onslaught. _

_ "I could do this at all hours," he confesses against my ear as the tip of his finger presses against my entrance. “I will not be satisfied until I sink into you and fill you with my seed.” _

_ Despite the fatigue, a chill runs through me and the tip of his finger pushes. Discomfort strains my muscles; but I force myself to breathe and relax. I can bear it: I can bear anything for him. _

_ "I've seen you in my dreams," he mutters wildly. “I've seen you astride my hips, riding my cock, keeping the rhythm with which you welcome me inside, your mouth open to shout my name when you come.” _

  
  


_ Inevitably, I bend towards him and his finger sinks into me. He curses under his breath and suddenly emptiness bristles my burning skin. I roll onto my back to watch him pacing the room, breathing hard. He brushes his loose hair with trembling fingers and finally turns to look at me. My eyes drop to his erect sex and I experience the resurgence of desire with the force of a firestorm. _

  
  


_ When he approaches me, he does it with slow, calculated steps. He sits next to me and draws me to his lap. _

_ “See how I love you, boy?” he whispers in a deep voice, pressing his lips to my temple. “I can't get enough of you.” _

_ "I'll be an adult in two seasons," I dare remind him, holding on to his shoulder and neck to kiss the gap below his throat. “And I will be yours. All yours, Fëanáro.” _

_ His maternal name rolls on my tongue. I have never called him for it and my brother is holding me violently. _

_ "I'm going to talk to Father as soon as he gets up," he informs. “I'm going to tell him what I want from you …” I feel the blush warm my cheeks, “what you want from me. I'm going to tell him that you belong to me.” _

_ “I don't think he’d like it,” I comment, unsure. _

_ He takes me by the chin and forces me to raise my face to stare at us. _

_ “Do you want to be with me, Nolvo?” He questions me. “If you are not sure, I can wait. I will keep your ring until you are ready. If, on the other hand, you don't want …” His voice suddenly fades and I feel his fingers cool on my chin. “We will not talk about it again. I will forget that this happened …” _

_ “Will you will do it?” I challenge him, watching his reaction. He hesitates. _

_ "No," he admits in a grunt. “I will never forget what has happened here today. I can never get rid of my feelings for you; but I can try ... try not to bother you with …” _

_ "I like that you bother me," I interrupt, moving to straddle his lap. “If father opposes us, I will leave the city. I will be an adult and I can go wherever I want ... and I want to be with you, Fëanáro.” _

_ He does not reply. His eyes flash and his half-open mouth lets out soft gasps when I start moving over his stiff sex. _


	8. The Prince's Diary (1): How to break a heart.

_ Five days have passed since I got engaged to Fëanáro. Shortly before the Mingling of Lights, my brother left my rooms and went to his rooms in the palace and then visited his father before he went to the Council. That afternoon, during the second meal, I learned from Lalwen that father had left for Valimar to answer a call from Ingwë Ingweron. It is unlikely that my brother managed to see him before his departure. _

_ Fëanáro has not returned to the palace since then either and there are times when I think it was all a dream… until I see his ring on my finger. _

_ “It's a beautiful ring.” _

_ My mother's voice brings me out of my memories and I look up, realizing that I have been stroking the jewel absentmindedly. _

_ "It is," I admit, feeling the blush warm my face. _

_ “Did you buy it in the market?” She is interested and offers me a hand. _

_ "It's a gift," I admit, dropping my hand into her to let her examine the ring closely. _

_ Really my brother insisted on doing something unique: the red circle that must gird the stone in his ring is made of a single gem and inside, spirals of light dance like living flames. _

_ “A gift?” she repeats and I notice how her lips tighten slightly. “As I said, beautiful.” She drops my hand gently and watches me for a few seconds before going back to her sketchbook. “Have you seen your brother these days?” _

_ “N-no.” I deny with effort. “I haven't been to Formenos in almost a month, mother.” _

_ “But he was here. A few days ago he was looking for your father, but Finwë had already left for Valimar. Didn’t you see him?” _

_ “Father left before I got up,” I remind her. “I didn't even know he was going to travel.” _

_ "I ask if you didn't see your brother," he points out, raising an eyebrow. _

_ "Oh," I pretend to understand. “No, mother, I did not see Curufinwë after he was looking for father. Why? Has something happened to him?” _

_ “No,” she shrugs and without looking at me, she adds, unconcerned: “I heard that Nerdanel returned home once again.” _

_ “With Mahtan?” _

_ “With your brother.” _

_ I force myself not to react. Nerdanel returned with Fëanáro. I hope he told her the truth, that we ... that he ... Why did Fëanáro not visit me again? _

  
  


_ ……………………………. _

  
  


_ I dare not go to Formenos and my nephews have not been to Tirion in weeks. I can barely contain the urge to run for my brother. It's been days since my mother told me about Nerdanel's return. I spend the rest hours awake, pressing his ring against my lips, dreaming that he will break into my bedroom as before and tell me that everything is already arranged, that he cannot wait for my anniversary, that he is coming to take me with him. _

_ Father has sent a messenger announcing his arrival. I hope Fëanáro comes now, to tell him… _

  
  


_ ……………………… _

  
  
  


_ Lalwen breaks into my bedroom, screaming. _

_ “Father is here! Father is here!” _

_ "Good," I growled, burying my face in the pillow to hide the traces of tears. A prince does not cry. “He must have arrived two days ago.” _

_ “He went to visit Fëanáro,” informs my sister, jumping on my bed. _

  
  


_ I jump off the bed, almost running her down in my haste. I did not undress the day before, so I don't waste time combing my loose hair and run terrified to meet my father. Lalwen follows me, screaming to wait for her. I cannot. I want ... I need to know what Fëanáro said to father! _

  
  


_ Father is in the music room with our mother. A modest breakfast is served at the low table between them. _

_ “Nolvo!” Father exclaims when I enter, panting agitated. “Someone slept dressed,” he observes, smiling. _

_ “I was tired,” I mumble, trying to contain my impatience. “Did you go to Formenos?” I do not get it. _

_ I perceive my mother's severe gaze and my father seems slightly surprised by my abruptness. _

_ “So I did. I wanted to see my grandchildren.” He smiles happily. “Maitimo and Macalaurë will return to Tirion this week to continue their studies at Court. They will stay until after your coming of age.” _

_ “I'm glad,” I say, thinking that perhaps Fëanáro decided it that way so that we can all three return to Formenos. “And the others? Moryo? Atarinkë?” _

_ “All alright. Happy, ”adds my father, increasingly smiling. “And surprised.” _

_ “Surprised? I babble. _

_ “Nerdanel is pregnant. For the sixth time. Can you believe it? She claims they will be twins. Twins! That is a true miracle. Curufinwë is happy, much calmer than in all the years of his marriage. At last, he seems to have found the peace he needs. I hope after this, he and Nerdanel will not argue again. It's time…” _

  
  


_ Finwë's voice is lost in my ears. Nonsense words float around me. _

_ Nerdanel is pregnant. It is impossible. It's a lie. Fëanáro said he loved me. He promised… _

_ I caress the ring in my hand and perceive my mother's gaze fixed on my hands. I turn around, in silence. _

_ “Arakáno! Where are you going?” _

_ “To change my clothes, mother.” I lie conscientiously. _

_ No one stops me again. _

_ I hurry to the stables and pull Tyelkaráto out of his cubicle. I don't waste time saddling him. I jump onto his back and grab onto the reins before hitting his flanks. I barely maintain enough common sense to compel the horse to take a controlled pace as we continue into the city. As soon as I leave the streets, I mentally order Tyelkaráto to run. _

  
  


_ We run. We flew north. The air that hits my face and beats my hair cannot clear my spirits. I'm confused. Father's words get tangled up in my head with the promises my brother made to me in my room two weeks ago. I don't know what I'm looking for, what I'm expecting. I want to see Fëanáro. I want him to tell me that it's a lie, that it was a mistake, that Father misunderstood. I want him to tell me that it was before, that Nerdanel was already pregnant when she left for her father's house and that she returned now; but that she will not stay, that he already told her that she cannot stay because I ... because he loves me, because I am his partner now. _

  
  


_ The images of that day swirl in my mind. I feel Fëanáro's lips on mine again, his hands on my body, my hands on him, his sex looking for mine, his semen moistening my skin, mixing with my fluids. I remember how he took me in his mouth and led me to ecstasy, how he guided me to give him pleasure with my mouth ... and how he kissed me afterward. No, none of that was a lie. Fëanáro loves me. My brother loves me. His ring is on my finger and it wasn't just a gift, but a promise ...  **a claim** . _

  
  


_ I almost rode past the forge in my haste to get to the house, but through the half-open door, I notice the glow of the forge and force my steed to stop. I jump to the ground while Tyelkaráto is still kicking, restless, and head to Fëanáro's workshop. When I am at the door, voices come to me: a muffled murmur and broken sentences. I push open the door and enter, stopping in the middle of the deserted place ... except for the scene that the fire illuminates in front of me as if the Valar wanted me to appreciate every detail. _

_ Loremmirë's hair falls in a cascade of golden curls to the table on which he stands with his elbows. His clothes are open and loose, allowing the red glow of the fire to dance on his pale skin. With his head thrown back in sensual abandon, my friend groans at the top of his voice, while his spread legs are held up by my brother's muscular forearms. Fëanáro is standing between his thighs. He wears his dark hair in a thick braid and loose strands sway in front of his face with every onslaught. His pants are open and hang detained at his hips. I can see the column of flesh sliding in and out of Loremmirë's body. Sweat covers them both, making their skins shine. _

  
  


_ For a second, I feel as if something is going through my body - a lash of physical pain that prevents me from breathing and seeing - but immediately the sensation disappears and only emptiness remains. I don't feel anything inside me. I don’t feel anymore. The scene before my eyes, the broken moans that reveal pain and pleasure, the voices hoarse with passion, the sensual thrusts of both bodies ... they don't tell me anything. I feel no shame, no disgust ... no jealousy. I don't feel angry either. _

_ Loremmirë turns his face and fixes his gray eyes on me. A scream interrupts his gasps and I see his beautiful features contort with terror. _

_ “Prince Nolofinwë!” he squeals as he tries to free himself from the hands gripping his hips like grappling hooks. _

_ My brother… My  **half-brother** lets him go and turns his face in my direction. For a moment, I see his obsidian eyes flash as if he didn't think I was here; but immediately his expression closes. There is nothing in it. There is nothing in him that can convince me. _

_ I feel the corners of my mouth rise and by their faces, I understand that I am smiling. Loremmírë continues to stare at me in horror as he struggles to compose his clothes. Fëanáro doesn't even move to hide his half-hard sex yet, shiny with the oil he must have used to fuck his apprentice. _

_ "Sorry to interrupt," I say, and am almost surprised by my calm, indifferent tone. “I came to congratulate you… Brother Curufinwë. Father told us about the new pregnancy.” _

_ “Pregnancy?” Loremmírë repeats, opening his eyes wide. _

_ I have to make an effort not to burst out laughing: this asshole is in love! _

_ "Twins," I continue, ignoring my old friend's confusion. “Quite a wonder. I wish you so much happiness, brother. I suppose that with the return of Nerdanel and all this you will be very busy,” I continue speaking, softly. “I will fully understand that you cannot attend my anniversary party. Like your children: I imagine you will need them here. Good morning to both of you.” I turn to leave, but an idea comes to me and I turn slowly. “Oh, true. I found this.” I extend a hand holding the ring between two fingers: Fëanáro's gaze twinkles and he makes a move in my direction. “You must have dropped it at the entrance.” _

_ With a simple gesture, I tossed the ring at his feet. Fëanáro does not look down, his eyes fixed on me. I keep smiling as I turn my back on him and abandon the forge. _

_ “Nolofinwë!” _

_ I listen to Maitimo running towards me from the house. Behind him runs Atarinkë. The firstborn of my half brother stops before reaching me, revealing my face; but not my younger nephew. Atarinkë - so much like his father that I instantly feel nausea of rage and disgust fill my throat - almost pounces on my arms, all awkwardness and black hair that tangles for a second in my fingers when I hold him off my chest. _

_ "Nolvo, you came to visit us," he laughs, his cheeks burning. _

_ "I'm leaving now," I reply. _

_ “Stay to eat with us. You haven't been here in a long time.” _

_ Atarinkë's hands search for my disheveled clothes, trying to climb on me as I clung to his father years ago. _

_ "No," I deny, controlling my anger. My nephews are not to blame for their father making fun of me. Atarinkë is not to blame for looking like him. “My family is waiting for me at home.” _

_ I push him away, ignoring the bewildered expression on his beautiful features, the glint of tears that floods his obsidian eyes. I perceive Maitimo watching me, but I do not recognize his presence as I jump on my horse and order him to leave. Before Tyelkaráto gallops off, I catch a glimpse of Fëanáro at the forge's gate, his fist clenched to one side, his shirt open… and I understand that I am not furious with him, but with myself for my foolishness. _


	9. An eagle!, they yelled

**_Barad Eithel, 455 PE_ **

  
  


Fëanor went to the window and yanked it open. The cold air that preceded dawn hit his face, wounding his cheeks and lips. He ignored the mist that almost immediately clung to his skin and hair in a thin curtain of moisture.

He tried -  _ really tried  _ \- to evoke Loremmírë's features. The blond apprentice mixed in a tide of lovers, faces, bodies without names, or with too many names.

No, he had not forgotten that day - how could he forget the day when Nolofinwë turned away from him so as not to look back? –But he remembered it differently from how his half-brother related it.

He wondered how many times Golfin had reread that passage. How many times back in Valinor would he have returned to the day when Fëanor destroyed the bond between them.

No. He pressed his closed hand to his chest, closing his eyes.

He couldn't remember the blond apprentice at his table, at his feet, moaning for his cock… because what he remembered from that day was how much he wished it was Nolofinwë who was receiving his passion, his thrust. All he could vividly evoke was the crystal cold smile that replaced every other expression on the beautiful features of the elf he loved.

He remembered the pain that pierced his soul, his body when the son of Indis threw the ruby ring at his feet as if it were a trinket found in the street.

With eager, desperate fingers, he rummaged through his clothes, under his shirt, and extracted a fine gold chain. He clenched the pendant in his fist until the hoop was embedded in his palm and then, he opened his hand to bring the jewel to his lips. The ruby ring touched his mouth and Fëanor pretended that even after all that time, he could feel the warmth of his half-brother's skin on the gem.

He spun around slowly and his gaze fell on the journal on the table.

For a long -  _ too long  _ \- time, he had thought he was the only one he remembered. During all those years in Tirion when his relationship with Golfin went from cold indifference to burning hatred, Míriel's son wondered on numerous occasions if his half-brother had forgotten what it was like to feel his lips, his bare skin, fall asleep with sweat and the essence of sex perfuming their intertwined bodies. Long after the breakup, when they attacked each other in Council sessions like wolves jealous of their territory, Fëanor wondered what it would feel like - what would it feel like to kiss that mouth again, hold Golfin under his body, sink into his warmth, lose himself in his moans ... A dream that never came true - that will never come true now.

  
  


He took a deep breath, evoking the words written by the teenager he had thrown from his side. The repeated occasions when Finwë mentioned the change in the character of his second son, came to his mind, the times he read the concern on Indis's face as she looked at her favorite son, the relief of so many people when finally the High Prince married Anairë ... Only Golfin had seemed to pay no attention to anything that was happening around him. His marriage to Anairë had been more camaraderie than passion. And now he knew: he had stolen that spark from his half-brother.

It was  **his** fault! Golfin had closed his heart to the world because Fëanor had hurt him so deeply that he no longer felt - did not want to feel - anything else.

He cursed under his breath, running a hand through his loose hair.

This was not how it should turn out. He was supposed to have done it for him, for his precious Nolofinwë, for the person he loved above all else …

_ ‘Fëanáro first loves father and his work, then the memory of his mother - the holy and beloved Míriel -, then his children would come and finally - deep down in his heart - I come, the brother whom he prefers to treat as any elf. I guess I should be grateful that he doesn't ignore me as he does with my siblings.’ _

Did he really believe that he was so far back in his heart? Had he really been that incompetent in exposing his feelings?

He walked slowly to the bed and dropped onto the thickly embroidered coverlet.

Normally, when he visited Hithlum, he would stay in another room - one that Golfin suited according to his tastes and demands - but this time he had invaded Golfin's bedroom.

He shifted on the bed until he could sink his face into the navy blue silk-lined pillow. He breathed in the scent of jasmine and sandalwood that lingered on the garments and an angry scream rose from his throat, choking against the pillow.

He wasn't going to ask for forgiveness. He wasn't going to explain why he had done it, what he had done. He wasn't going to tell him that he was an idiot, that he loved him above all else, that he loved him so much that he had given up on him …

The sobs shook the High King's shoulders, first slightly; but then more and more powerful, until his whole body shook with crying.

  
  


“An eagle! An eagle is coming!”

Fëanor blinked several times, still sleepy. The feeling of _déjá vu_ grew heavy in his bones, sinking his stomach.

  
  


"It's Thorondor! And he brings people!”

The elf king frowned: that bird had nothing to do but rescue people apparently. Well, there might already be …

He blinked several times, rousing himself.

Thorondor. Thorondor had brought Fingon and Maedhros from Thangorondrim four hundred Years of the Sun ago, right. But Thorondor had also taken Golfin's corpse to Gondolin.

Fëanor sprang from the bed and, stumbling, grabbed his sword to rush for the door.

“Father!” Maglor yelled as he emerged from a side corridor. “Did you listen? Thorondor …”

“I know!” Roared Fëanor. “I'm going to kill that fucking bird.”

Maglor ran after him in dismay.

When Fëanor arrived in the courtyard, a group of elves and humans had gathered there. He recognized the Sindarin advisor who greeted him upon his arrival and the human who seemed to enjoy Golfin's affection -Fëanor pushed these thoughts away for another moment: now he would deal with the eagle that stole his last moments with Golfin, then he would take care of the presumptuous human who raised his eyes to…

  
  


Two eagles descended from the sky, thundering the courtyard with their enormous wings and causing those present to retreat and help each other so as not to be swept away by the gale.

Fëanor stood alone in the middle of the esplanade, covering his eyes with one hand while in the other he held his sword under the hilt. When the eagles landed and folded their wings as they bowed, the elf straightened and gnashed his teeth in anger.

"Thorondor!" he screamed.

The King of Manwë’s Eagles turned his huge head to focus his left eye on the High King.

"Greetings, Fëanáro son of Finwë," he greeted in a slow voice. “I bring you what you think you have a right to.”

“What…?”

"Hope," added the eagle.

Fëanor frowned. Before replying, his attention was drawn to the figure descending from Thorondor's back.

  
  


Dressed in a white gown that did not exceed the height of her knees, Aredhel would have surpassed in beauty the queen of the Valar himself. Neither the Helcaraxë nor the darkness, nor the blood that too often stained her snowy clothes had diminished the light of her person. And yet her uncle immediately noticed the weight of her shoulders, the curve of her pale mouth, the slight circles under her gray eyes.

Aredhel did not look at Fëanor as he reached up to reach for something on the eagle's back.

Two elves descended from the second bird. One was a delicate, slender female, golden like Indis, dressed in green and gold robes; the second was a tall male with dark hair braided tightly. The black and silver clothes of the male replicated the embroidery pattern on the female's attire and the leather gauntlet that covered his right arm gave him away as an archer.

They both ran to the aid of the princess.

"Irissë!" Fingon yelled, running toward her.

But the High Prince of Hithlum stopped short as the newcomers lowered a body and carefully placed it on the ground. Aredhel knelt beside the body and holding the elf's head in her lap, she finally looked up at her older brother.

"Finno," she said hoarsely with weariness, "I've brought dad home."


End file.
